


a wilderness of tigers

by kaermorons



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Feral Behavior, M/M, Mild Blood, Power Bottom Boba Fett, Rough Sex, Spurs Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Still mostly-dressed, Boba spurs Din into action.it's 1.2k of just spurs kink y'all
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 15
Kudos: 200





	a wilderness of tigers

**Author's Note:**

> listen i don't know yall, george lucas went off with giving boba fett spurs
> 
> and i went off in return

It should be fucking humiliating, being treated like an animal.

Din’s thoughts are warring with one another, neither side winning as he grinds his hips down. He hasn’t sweat this much in...fuck, he can’t even remember, and it makes his grip on Boba’s hips slip a little. He readjusts his grip and digs in his nails, almost blacking out from the  _ noise _ Boba makes beneath him. They’d been at this for...fuck, it’s better not to think about the concept of time when he’s like this. All he knows is the tight, wet heat wrapped around his prick and the prickling sensation of almost-sharp, almost-danger pressing into the small of his back.

The renewed grip on Boba’s hips results in a position change of the man’s legs. Din’s hips stutter a little as his knees bend, and the sides of his boots brush teasingly over his calves, before lifting again and—

And the spurs find purchase in the meat of his thighs.

Din keens, trying to keep pace, keep his breathing even, keep even one shred of sanity in his grasp. Their helmets knock together, and the noise should be enough to draw him back, but somehow the reminder that they’re doing this in full armor makes the entire situation that much more heart-stopping. He desperately slams his hips deeper, literally spurred into action like some beast of burden. He feels like a beast, single-mindedly fucking Boba Fett within an inch of his life, within an inch of his own life.

The threat of the spurs against the smooth, untouched skin of his thighs, the delicate skin where his ass meets his thighs, bears more weight than a blaster barrel in his face. Visor to visor, Din can make out the barest gleam in Boba’s eyes, but nothing else. All he sees is the cool exterior, the almost condescending curve of his shoulders, the barest implication that he’s getting  _ bored. _

Din wants nothing more than to bite down on Boba’s neck, somewhere soft and unscarred, and leave a mark of his own. He knows Boba’s leaving marks of his own in his skin, deep, bloodless indentations and darkening bruises that will smart for weeks when he sits. Would they break skin? Would they pierce into him the way Din was piercing into Boba now?

Stars, but the thought makes him lose it, lose all rhythm and grace to his movements as he fucks deeper. His body wars between being  _ good, _ following Boba’s rules and wants, and pressing back against those spurs, the sharp edges of expectation, wanting to see how far Boba would take it, how little he’d tolerate of Din’s attitude.

He gasps when his prediction bears fruit, the sharpest spikes of the spurs sinking into the meat of his ass, where he’s flexing as hard as he can to try and not come before bidden, before he’s allowed. His hands tremble and a garbled, unintelligible moan breaks through the vocoder in his helmet. He’s never seen Boba use them on an actual animal, but he knows what spurs are for, and he knows he’s being ridden hard, and needs to go faster.

He gives him faster.

The hand at the back of Din’s neck, where the fingers have curled under the helmet and into the longer parts of his hair, pulls, and some instinctual urge in him turns to hot, molten beskar. Din doesn’t know when a moment like this is going to happen again, and it’s with that need, that desperation, that Din adjusts his footing and gives Boba what he wants.

The first sign of Boba’s composure breaking is the flex of his massive thighs around Din’s middle, a motion that drives the spurs in deeper. Din’s nerves are alight, and in a hysterical moment, thinks he could probably feel every single curve of those spurs if he concentrated. The space they’ve uncovered on themselves is obscene. Din would probably feel less vulnerable if they’d actually fully disrobed, instead of shucking their pants down to get at what’s necessary. Fett’s cock leaks steadily onto his skin, and bounces a little with the force of Din’s thrusts.

The second sign was of course the moan. Din knew he’d shut off his vocoder earlier, keeping any and all sounds deep inside the privacy of his own helmet. But Din is deep inside of him, and can feel the vibrations coming from the groans and noises he can’t hear. The obscene squelch of the slick they’d used coupled with the soft, implied pleasure Boba won’t let him hear tells Din he’s getting close.

Boba’s other hand is back against the wall, hanging on with just one hand. He looks like one of those performance riders, hanging onto a bucking beast with one hand and their thighs alone. The animosity grows, and Din feels a growl building in the back of his throat, some kind of need to unleash that urge further.

And the spurs pull out. He has a bare moment of confusion before Boba’s squirming again, and  _ fuck,  _ he can feel the blood dripping down the back of his thighs, but that’s secondary to the spurs piercing in again with a divine accuracy Din can only thank whatever god granted them. Spikes deep in the small of his back, Din moves his hands to Boba’s ass, pounding in with everything he has. The harsh snarls that pick up through the helmet’s receiver don’t even sound human anymore.

At this point, he’s feral. He’s fucking Fett harder than he ever had before, and Fett hardly looks like he knows that, all cool, expressionless visor and relaxed hands. If it weren’t for the tight squeeze on Din’s middle, for the pinpoints of pain in his back, he’d think Boba was distracted by something else. Regardless, they’re both racing toward some animal instinct with no name, only spoken in snarls and bits and gnashes of teeth. They’d be in pieces, covered in blood, were it not for the armor.

The joining of two warriors like this is not chaste or gentle, it’s full of blood and conquest and victory. And Din knows, even though he’s the one giving everything he has, that he’s been  _ mounted _ and  _ broken _ in every sense of the terms.

When they do come, it’s full of Din’s shouts, and Boba’s shoulders seizing up, curses snarled in languages lost to time and space. There’s blood dripping down the back of Din’s thighs, there’s blood on Boba’s calves, there’s going to be blood on the sheets and all over Boba’s stupid fucking boots with their stupid fucking spurs, but  _ stars,  _ if it isn’t a release they both needed.

Boba spills untouched with nothing but a sharp arch to his spine, and Din is so overwhelmed by the hot tight spasms that he’s perfectly silent as he fills Boba’s ass, breeding him thick and full. Their helmets hit together again as the tension leaves, as the scent of blood takes over the scent of passion, and though the spurs leave Din’s body, they don’t leave his mind for a long while.

Beskar to beskar, they return to humans once more, the hunters satisfied in themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
